


Edith Was

by AnnCheno



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Female Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnCheno/pseuds/AnnCheno
Summary: A 'Crimson Peak' AU where Edith and Eunice grew up fast friends.But Eunice was off again. "He'll know all the latest dances, and he'll be very well educated, and very well dressed, and... and he'll build things! Like your father, Edith. He'll be intelligent, and kind, and charming, and dashing, and he'll build things."
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Edith Was

**Author's Note:**

> Permission is expressly denied for this story to be hosted on or appear anywhere other than archiveofourown.org, including but not limited to third-party apps.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
\- - 1 - -

Edith Cushing was eight. Eunice McMichael was ten. In 1885, schoolgirls wore their hair in single braids that fell down their backs. Edith's hair was yellow-blond. Eunice's hair was already as dark as bark. Edith's dress was a reddish-brown gingham check. Eunice's was the latest fashion, peach satin.

In the classroom, desks were shared, pencils exchanged. In the lunchroom, food was shared, grapes exchanged. On the way home, stories were shared, hearts exchanged. Edith dreamt of adventure. Eunice dreamt of boys.

"I want to go to Africa," said Di.

"I want to go to a ball," said Ni.

"I want to go to the moon!" exclaimed Di.

"I want to go to New York City," sighed Ni.

Di stomped her foot. "What?" said Ni. "The moon is as far away as New York City."

"Is not!" And Di poked Ni in the arm and took off running to the park. Ni laughed and set off behind her, not running, just walking as quickly as her bodice and her shoes would allow. When she got there, Di was collapsed on her back under the leaning tree, breathing heavily and happily as the leaves played at being imperfect umbrellas against a spring afternoon sun. Ni surveyed the ground and arranged herself carefully on the thickest part of the grass she could find.

"Do you miss your father?" Di asked.

Ni frowned, and didn't look at Di, and played one finger against a rock half-buried in the soil. After a minute, she spoke. "Not really. Mamah doesn't miss him either. She never talks about him. I've asked a couple times. She says the same few things and then finds something else to say." She was quiet again for a moment. "I don't have good memories of him. I remember him yelling. Sometimes at me. Sometimes at Mamah. Sometimes at the servants. Usually at Alan." The rock wiggled as she picked at it. "I told him once he shouldn't say untrue things to Alan. He yelled at me for that." Ni stretched her neck to drop her voice. "'I'm lord of my own house and I'll say what I want to who I want.' After that I never spoke to him, unless he talked to me first or Mamah told me to say something. I think sometimes I miss... the idea of having a father, a nice one, a kind one. But I don't miss him."

Di rolled herself over, sat up, and crossed her legs 'Indian' style. Ni fussed with Di's dress, looking around. "Di! We're in public. Be more ladylike."

"I'm only eight! I'll be a lady when I'm old."

"Oh, I'm old?"

"I dunno. Are you a lady?"

Ni gasped, and lightly slapped her hand on Di's knee like Mamah did to her, just not with nearly as much force as Mamah used. But before she could say anything, Di was up and had bounced a step or two away, facing the rest of the park. Ni moved a leg to start standing up, but suddenly Di's hand was in her line of sight, offering her help. Ni moved her hand, accepted her help, and stood. 

They walked towards the path, still in the direction of home. Ni picked grass bits out of Di's dress. "I don't even remember if you ever met him."

"Once, when Father was building the bank. I think I was five? All I remember is, he looked like he could open his jaw and swallow me whole!" Di made a scary face, and Ni laughed; but the laugh had an echoed sadness in it.

"That's about how I remember him too. At least your father is nice, Di."

Di laughed and skipped ahead a few. "He is! He gives the best hugs, and tells the best stories. And best of all, he won't ever die."

Ni pursed her lips and her eyebrows at that.

"It's true! He said so. And Father is never wrong about anything. Do you want to come over for dinner? Mother is making pot roast."

"I would be delighted, thank you."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
\- - 2 - -

Edith was fourteen. Eunice was sixteen. In 1891, young ladies attending school wore their hair halfway between a severe bun and a feathered pile. Edith had not yet learned to be comfortable in tight bodices. Eunice wore her brocades and satins like a second skin. 

"... and he'll be tall," Eunice said. Edith had an itch in the small of her back. "And kind. He'll smile beautifully, a smile that reaches his eyes." Edith tried scratching, but there were too many layers of fabric. "He'll hold out his hand and ask me to dance. I'll coyly smile back, only a little bit, and-- Edith! Heaven's sake, do you have an ant in your dress?"

Edith had grabbed ahold of the entire waist of her dress and was twisting it back and forth, a desperate attempt to get what did, now that Eunice mentioned it, feel rather like an ant that had gotten smushed against her spine. She stopped the motion. Eunice looked towards the house, and, seeing no one, turned back. "Come here, silly girl. Turn round." Edith complied. "Where is it?" 

"Here!" Edith pointed, and couldn't tell quite what Eunice was doing; bunching, or pinching, or smoothing? She wasn't sure. "How do you tolerate this much fabric everywhere?"

"I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. There, better?"

"Yes, thank you." Edith sat back in her original spot on the McMichaels' lawn. "Why doesn't your mother ever let you dress how you want?"

"Ladies must always be perfect when they leave the house." Eunice flipped open her fan and began lazily fanning herself. "In two years, I'll be able to marry. I need to be aware of my imagery. Which is what I've been trying to tell you for months now."

"Oh, believe me, I've heard you." Edith sat back and crossed her arms, hands on elbows. "You have such a checklist for this man you think you'll find. What happens if --"

The door to the house opened. Without even turning to see who it was, Eunice straightened up. Her fan started moving more quickly, and she hissed, "Sit up, stop crossing your arms."

Edith put her hands in her lap, but kept her posture, and said, "It's only Gregory." The man took note of the girls on the lawn but did not engage with them in any way, having come out only to retrieve the plates and cups from their afternoon tea. The white of his gloves and collar contrasted sharply with his skin. Despite the tens of feet between the paved patio and the blanket under the tree -- there was no way he could have overheard anything short of an exclamation -- the girls did not speak until he went back inside. 

"Is he going to tell on me for folding my arms?"

"Edith, please don't vex Mamah. She gives me earfuls about you and it's ridiculous. Anyway, I want to know what you think!"

"About what?" Edith tried to keep the sullenness out of her voice. 

"About my dream man! What am I missing?"

"His actual existence?"

But Eunice was off again. "He'll know all the latest dances, and he'll be very well educated, and very well dressed, and... and he'll build things! Like your father, Edith. He'll be intelligent, and kind, and charming, and dashing, and he'll build things."

Edith was feeling peevish, what with the whole 'don't vex Mamah' bit. She bit out, "Builders marry their buildings, you know."

"What?" Eunice's tone was 'speak up, I didn't hear you.'

Edith spoke up. "It's something my mother used to say. Builders marry their buildings. There were some years where Father stayed out late at night quite a bit, and Mother was not very happy about it. I guess he eventually hired some more men or something, and worked less himself. But that's only been in the last year."

Eunice fell silent, and fiddled with her fan. Late summer in Buffalo could be unforgiving in terms of temperature and humidity, but this day wasn't too bad. Horses and wheels could barely be heard from the thoroughfare, and sometimes more closely, when one went down the lane on the other side of the hedge. Crickets sang, and a bird or a squirrel busied itself in the greenery. When she spoke again, she reminded Edith of why they kept being friends; under all her mother's silk and satin, before all her imported ideals and foisted futures, Eunice really did have a dream. And her dream was not Mrs. McMichael's.

"Your mother was a brave woman, then. She married a man she loved and loved the man she married. I remember that." 

Memories flooded Edith's mind; tears stung the corners of her eyes. Mother's laugh, Mother's smiles, Mother's hugs. Mother's tears. Mother's joys.

Eunice continued. "She built a life with him. If she managed a household when he wasn't around, that's her strength, not a weakness. Mamah, of course, wants me to marry a man of greater station. She's already told me she's going to take me to New York City and Chicago when I'm eighteen. But your father... he _makes_ things. He takes empty ground and puts something useful there. He tames the wilderness, paves the dirt with stone. The buildings he makes could last a hundred, or two hundred years. Business happens there. Men have jobs, provide for their families. All because your father builds. And if he builds, and she supported him, then she built, too.

"You always talk about these stories you love to read. Some man built that story. Who supported him? We don't know her name, but that doesn't mean she didn't matter. I want to matter. Not so that someone will know my name, but so someone will have the results of my work."

Edith's mind was still on her mother; Edith's tears stacked up on each other until one single tear fell out of each eye. She hastily wiped them away.

Eunice smiled apologetically. "So yes. I'll dream of a builder. This is Buffalo. Surely there's a lot of those to go around. Anyway. You tell me what you want in a husband, hm?"

The house door opened again. Edith wiped her cheeks one more time, just in case, and took as deep a breath as she could manage before she looked to see who it was.

Alan was eighteen, and -- when had Alan gotten to be eighteen? The last time Edith remembered paying attention to him, he was... well, not eighteen. He'd filled out, in... good ways. What? When did Edith pay attention to boys? This was Eunice's fault. She'd just asked about Edith's husband-checklist, which was not a thing Edith had ever thought to actually think about before, and --

How ridiculous. Her best friend's brother. Edith had always thought of Alan like she'd supposed she'd think of a cousin; occasionally present, vaguely annoying, sometimes funny, usually ignorable. But Alan was smart, and Alan was... if not 'kind', then at least average, and not horrible. And Alan did want to be a doctor.

Alan was standing next to them, holding his hand out first for Eunice. As she stood, Alan said, "The lady of the house has requested that I accompany Miss Edith back to her home." 

Then his hand was held out to her. Edith blinked, and glanced up at him. Nothing special was on his face, nothing different. In her peripheral vision, Edith could see Eunice smoothing her skirts. Edith decided she would not need his help -- _No, this is silly. He's just being polite. Hurry up before you make it awkward._ Edith quickly moved her hand, accepting his help to stand. Eunice said, "I'll go, too." 

Alan took a breath, and said, "Mother wants to speak with you. Mrs. Shropshire is going to be joining us for dinner."

Eunice's face fell for a split-second, before a curious mask slid into place. Edith knew Mrs. Shropshire was the lady that ran the girl's finishing school, and that having her over for dinner was not an exceedingly uncommon occurrence. But Edith had never seen that particular expression on her friend's face before... or, to be more specific, that particular lack of expression.

Eunice's voice came out very polished. "It was so good to see you today, Edith. I look forwards to our next meeting." She gave a smooth curtsy and, without meeting Edith's eyes again, turned and went in the house.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
\- - 3 - -

Edith was six. Eunice was eight. In 1883, young friends didn't notice things like hairstyles and clothing. Edith and Eunice had been best friends for as long as either could remember. Their parents knew each other. They didn't pay attention to how or why.

Today, Di was in charge of Mrs Peartree and Miss Pearsapling, and Ni, of Mr Peartree and his friend Mr Stonebottom. 

Mr Peartree was his usual grumpy self. Mrs Peartree flounced everywhere, smiling at everyone all the time and also all the time telling everyone what to do. Miss Pearsapling was sweet and charming and did everything Mrs Peartree told her to do. Talk less, smile more. Sit up straight, cross ankles. She is so fortunate Mrs Peartree lets her sit at the tea table with the adults. Mr Stonebottom and Mr Peartree discuss stone and banks and money and men with titles like 'the Honorable' and 'Sir So-and-so.' Mrs Peartree tries to get Mr Peartree onto subjects like what she's had the servants plant in the garden this year. Mr Peartree snaps that he does not give a twig's fig about what's in the garden and stomps away from the tea table. Mr Stonebottom takes Mrs Peartree by the hand and apologizes quietly but earnestly. Ni says that Mamah says when a man apologizes to a woman, he ends with a kiss of her hand. Di hadn't heard that before.

No one called the girls about dinner.

When the sun was starting to get low and stomachs starting to get empty, the girls ventured downstairs. The lone house servant, one Mr Taylor, had completed his duties for the day and was about to leave. The girls inquired after Mrs Cushing.

"I'm here, my darlings. Please forgive me." A tired voice preceded her footsteps. Mrs Cushing appeared out of the front room and looked so different from how Di had ever seen her before that for a moment, she thought she was seeing a ghost. Di inhaled, then quickly stepped to her mother and gave her a hug.

_Mother, are you alright? You're always so strong, so cheerful. Smiling, laughing. This isn't right. Why is your face pale? Why are your eyes red? Have you been crying?_ Di wanted to ask all these things, but at six, couldn't find the words through the clogging emotion.

Mrs Cushing knelt and hugged her daughter tightly, far more tightly than usual. Then she rose, doing her best to muster her usual posture. "Mr Taylor, could I trouble you for one more thing today? Could you see that Miss McMichael gets home safely?" Her voice came low and thready, steady only in it's near-monotony. "It's not far. Bidwell Parkway is only a half-mile east. I know that's not the way you go --"

Mr Taylor said he would be glad to escort the child. Di and Ni hugged and said their goodbyes for the day, but a bit carefully, as both were unnerved by the mood in the air. Mrs Cushing helped Ni put on her coat and hat, and asked if she would be warm enough against the November chill. Ni said she would be, thank you.

After they left, Mother asked if Di had cleaned up the dolls, and Di said she had not. "You know you must keep your own things clean and in order." _Yes, Mother._ Di gave her a peck on the cheek as usual, then a hug which was not unusual, then one more peck just in case it made her feel better. It seemed to help.

By the time Di cleaned up the afternoon's festivities and come downstairs, Mother had cooked a light dinner, and there was a knock at the door. Di exclaimed excitedly, and ran to open it. But it was Mr Taylor. Mrs Cushing came up behind Di, and they exchanged a few sentences regarding the successful delivery of Miss McMichael to her residence, and the fact that Mr and Mrs McMichael were not home, and Mr Taylor hoped it was acceptable that Miss McMichael was left in the care of the staff. He apologized for not being able to do more, and even though Mother said everything was quite alright, and thanked him, Di wondered why Mr Taylor didn't kiss her hand. Maybe not all apologies were the same?

It would be another hour and a half before Father came home. Di had gotten ready for bed, had been persuaded to get in the bed while she waited, and had proceeded to doze off. She woke up when she heard his voice, and jumped out of bed and ran to the top of the stairs.

Father and Mother were in the front room. It was another of these nights. Father was late, but this time, Mother was upset. Di didn't like hearing these conversations, so she crept back to bed. She could hear the timbre of their voices echo through the house.

After a time, the front door opened and shut very firmly, and a low wail wafted through Di's bedroom door. She probably should have shut the door. She got out of bed to do so, and... decided to go downstairs instead.

One of the stairs creaked, even under her tiny frame. Mother's voice stopped, and her dresses whispered as she came to the doorway. With no lights on in the hall and one lamp on in the room, Mother was back-lit, and all Di could see was her outline. Mother looked like a black silk shadow come to life, standing in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist. Di could see no facial expression, only the shape: head, shoulders, elbows, skirt.

Mother's hands shot out towards Di and at the same time she let out a choked exclamation of... Di didn't know the words for it, but she could hear the pain and sorrow, and those things don't need words to be understood. But it was so startling, Di jumped and let out her own little cry. Mother drew her own hands back, then rushed to the stairs and bound Di up in a hug so strong, Di thought for a moment she wouldn't be able to breathe.

When Mother finally let go just a bit, Di asked what was wrong. Mother tried to speak, but words didn't come.

Di asked, for the first time, why Father always came home so late, and why Mother was always upset the next day, and why she finally got upset at him tonight. Mother took a breath before she answered.

"My darling," she said, in barely more than a rough, tear-soaked whisper, before taking a moment and a breath to compose herself. When she spoke, her voice did not waver now, even if it was still a bit scratched. "You're imagining things." She leaned down to kiss Di's forehead, and it was like all the pain and sorrow had been swept under a rug. Mother smiled, a thin thing, not like her usual smiles, but it was better than what Di had seen today. 

"Why don't we go out tomorrow? To the post office. The fresh air will... do us both some good."

The next day, Mr McMichael's body was found. Many years later, Edith would read newspaper clippings and see phrases like "axe-murder victim," "single blow to the skull," and "the weapon was said to be a butcher's cleaver, which was still lodged in the victim's cranium." Other sentences contained things like "no suspects," "grieving widow," and "his two children stood next to the grave as he was lowered in, and neither of them shed a single tear." Edith was sure that one was editorial license. All children mourn the deaths of their parents.

And how could they not? Death was a force for change. After Mother died, Father changed. He still stayed out late, working, for several years. Di and Ni, both at Ni's house in the afternoons after school, would take bets on which parent would arrive later, Di's father to pick her up and take her home, or Ni's mother, the inexhaustible whirlwind of energy and critique. Even after Mr Cushing bought the much bigger house in Mansfell Park, several miles from the McMichael residence, and hired more servants, and Di was judged to be old enough to take care of herself during the day, he would still work late.

But Father did change. He was never stern with Di after Mother passed. Half the time, he looked at her with some kind of sorrow, as though if he apologized to his daughter, he could pay penance for the words spoken to his wife. The other half of the time, he encouraged any wild adventure she wished to partake in. His heart and his waistline both increased in his fifties.

For a few years, Mrs McMichael served as an aunt figure in Di's life. That was a change, too. It was Mrs McMichael who pushed for the more ladylike dresses for thirteen-year-old Di. It was Mrs McMichael who let -- or required -- fourteen-year-old Edith attend one of the dinners with Mrs Shropshire. It was Mrs McMichael who answered the door when a seventeen-year-old Edith had called to inquire why her best friend had not returned any of her letters in the last twelve months, and informed Edith that Eunice had not been interested in being her friend for far longer than that. Edith knew that was a lie, but couldn't fight it.

Death was a force for change. Death forced change. Death caused some things to end, and others to begin. Death stopped, and Death started. Edith read all she could about Death, and believed herself ready to handle anything Life or Death threw her way.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
\- - 4 - - 

Edith was twenty-four. Eunice was twenty-six. In 1901, fashionable young women hoping to catch the eye of a handsome (and monied) man wore their hair in loose buns, piled on top of their head or balanced neatly on the back half. Edith was in a pale pinkish-white satin dress that showed off her shoulder blades. Eunice was in a salmon silk affair of similar style to her mother's, and showing off similar pearls, cheekbones, and collarbones to boot.

Sir Thomas was saying something about candles, and everyone stepped back to open up the center of the room.

Edith stood next to the one good friend she'd ever had, and wondered how many years it had been since they had spoken. Even now, her mind raced to think of something to say. _Sorry for crashing your party? Sorry for making your date late? Sorry for... I miss talking to you. How have you been? We used to be best friends. Have we changed too much, or could we be friends, again? Would I be yours? And --_

"Would you be mine?"

Suddenly, his hand was in her line of sight, offering her a dance. She looked up, into the face of the man who managed to be dark and pale at the same time. Dark hair, pale eyes. Dark clothes, pale skin. Dark heart, pale soul.

Eunice was ten, and dreamt of going to a ball.

Eunice was sixteen, and dreamt of a man with a smile that reached his eyes, a man who could dance _and_ build.

Eunice was twenty-six, and dreamt of... what did she dream of, these days?

"I don't think so, thank you," Edith got out in barely more than a whisper. "But I'm sure Eunice would be delighted."

"I dare say. But I have asked you."

Eunice was eighteen, and on a train to New York City, promising to write back two letters for every one Edith sent.

Eunice was twenty-two, and walking on the other side of a Buffalo street, on the arm of a man who looked like he only smiled when he was roaringly drunk, and built nothing more substantial than an impressive tavern tab. Eunice was wearing the mask, and her eyes were as unlit as her smile.

On her right, Ni's hand was poised exactly as Di's was now; thumb on index, hand at waist, ready to slide into the proffering and be whisked away across a parquet floor and into the rest of her life. 

Sir Thomas was thirty-four, and offering Di the hand, the dance -- the life?? -- that should belong to Ni. _He doesn't know what he's asking. He doesn't know what he's giving. He doesn't know what he's taking away. I... do._

_And yet..._

Edith moved her hand.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
\- - 5 - -

Eunice was sitting in a chair on the lawn of her mother's house. The March air alternated between remembering winter and hunting spring. She didn't notice the man until the third time he was saying her name.

He held out to her an envelope. She halfway heard him speak of it being delivered as part of a larger package to Fergison's practice, with a request that the letter be given directly to Eunice. Her eyes saw her name, scripted beautifully on the exterior; her heart surged up enough flame and fury to burn the world; her stomach sunk into enough icy rage to freeze it again. Her mask never slipped.

Eunice accepted the letter, thanked the man, and held it as he left her. Only then did she see, in the upper corner (not that she needed them to know the identity of the sender) two tiny letters -- well, average-sized letters, but somehow tiny in comparison. 

Di.

The flame faded; the ice sublimed. The small branches in a nearby bush scraped together; a creature foraging for anything that may have survived the winter, perhaps. Or maybe that was the wind, cutting through barren branches, through her shawl, through her blood, through her bones, through her heart. 

Eunice didn't know how long she sat, eyes on the envelope, but seeing something more distant. Girls, dresses, trees, smiles, friendships, dreams, mothers, birthdays, plans, hopes, men, failures. One more man; one more hope; one more failure.

Twice, she almost let the wind take the letter out of her hands, let it strip itself away from her like one more dead leaf from a greyed twig.

Then Eunice moved her hands, forced frozen fingers to tear open the envelope so quickly that she sliced the side of a digit and barely felt the pain. She snatched the papers from inside, and almost didn't see the drop of blood smear. 

So many sheets. Surely at least one held for her an answer.

She grasped the papers against the breeze with one hand and pressed a coldly stinging finger to dry lips and read:

_"My dearest--"_

Edith was sitting in a chair, at a writing desk -- Eunice could just _see_ her -- the perfect posture she learned somewhere in her late teens, crafting her beautiful handwriting, always about such un-beautiful things. Ghosts. Murders. Secrets. Pain. Death.

Edith would have paused, and considered, before choosing to finish the salutation with, "Ni."

How long had it been since those names?

_"I have no right to ask your forgiveness, so I don't. I'm not convinced I deserve even a fragment of it. If you choose to never speak to me again, I understand. But please, just read this one last letter._

_"I need to tell you -- no, more than that. You need to know who Sir Thomas Sharpe really was."_

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this story was written in one swath on June 1, 2016. I updated the fifth chapter about four months later.


End file.
